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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23048923">don't you go</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/dylansstrome/pseuds/dylansstrome'>dylansstrome</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Men's Hockey RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fluff, M/M, Pining, but they don't talk about it, dylan is in love, mikey and dylan are stupid, mikey is also in love</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 05:49:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,636</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23048923</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/dylansstrome/pseuds/dylansstrome</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know, when I imagined waking up in bed next to you as a kid, it didn’t involve you trying to kill me before I even had a chance to tell you good morning.”</p><p>Dylan definitely doesn’t think about the fact that Mikey’s apparently been thinking about sharing a bed with him since they were kids as he responds.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Michael McLeod/Dylan Strome</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>The Dylan Strome Celebration 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>don't you go</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/gigantic/gifts">gigantic</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hello!! i hope you enjoy the fic i wrote for you!!! it's just a little bit of fluff, but i'm happy with how it turned out. title is from the song don't you go by all time low!!! </p><p>as always, this is 100% fake. if you see your name or the name of someone you know personally in the tags, please close this window and maybe also burn the device you're reading this on.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dylan has come to expect a lot of things in life.</p><p>For instance: today, he expects to wake up a little later than he should (it’s his day off), and he expects to lay in bed a lot later than he should. He expects to waste half his morning on Twitter or Instagram or whatever social media he happens to get sucked into first instead of getting up to make himself breakfast. </p><p>So he wakes up to soft, warm sunlight and a gentle breeze flowing through the window, and he just appreciates the view for a long moment. And things are going as expected.</p><p>What Dylan does not expect is to accidentally punch his childhood best friend in the face when he goes to check the time, causing said childhood best friend to begin bleeding all over his sheets.</p><p>It’s a bit of a blur, really. One minute, Dylan sits up, stretches, and reaches for his phone in one motion. The next thing he knows, the back of his hand collides with something warm and hard and there’s a nasty little crack followed by a high pitched yelp. Dylan screams, because he’s startled, and then he realizes who the yelp came from.</p><p>“Mikey?”</p><p>Mikey, still trying to figure out who and where he is, is a little pissed, and frankly, he’s pretty sure he has a right to be. He’s holding his nose and trying (to no avail) to stop the bleeding when he finally speaks. </p><p>“Dude, what the fuck?!” he yells, starting not to care how much blood he’s getting on Dylan’s bed. </p><p>Dylan scrambles to his knees to help, apologizing profusely. </p><p>“Mikey, holy shit, I’m so sorry,” he rambles. “I forgot you spent the night.” He starts to reach out his hands, wanting to help collect the blood, until he realizes how utterly stupid and counterproductive that would be and stands up. “I’m sorry, oh my God. I’m gonna- I’ll go get some tissues, sorry,” he says awkwardly, making his way over to the en suite.</p><p>“Yeah, that sounds like a fantastic idea,” Mikey mutters, irritation shining through his faux gratitude. </p><p>When Dylan returns a few minutes later (for the second time- he didn’t grab enough tissues on his first trip), he just sits down awkwardly and gives Mikey a look that says ‘I’m so, so sorry for waking you up by breaking your nose.’ Mikey is the one to finally break the silence. </p><p>“You know, when I imagined waking up in bed next to you as a kid, it didn’t involve you trying to kill me before I even had a chance to tell you good morning.”</p><p>Dylan definitely doesn’t think about the fact that Mikey’s apparently been thinking about sharing a bed with him since they were kids as he responds. </p><p>“I’m sorry. I just didn’t think you were still gonna be here.” Dylan’s not used to sharing his bed with other people unless he’s in a relationship, even if it’s more than a one night stand that landed them there. And last he checked, Dylan was very, very single. People usually just leave before Dylan wakes up. Sometimes he wonders if it’s just because he’s a super, super late riser. He’s had people leave him notes before, telling him that they had fun but needed to get to work, or class, or some other prior commitment… all before Dylan woke up. Maybe he needs to work on his sleep habits. </p><p>Anyway, the point is: Dylan wasn’t expecting Mikey’s face to be where his phone should’ve been.</p><p>“Dude. We’ve been fucking around since we were, like, seventeen. I thought that once one of us finally had our own place, the other spending the night would be a given,” Mikey says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He has a point. </p><p>“Right. I’m just not used to it, I guess,” Dylan admits, reaching out to collect the mostly used tissues now. He feels more than a twinge of guilt as he looks Mikey over and lets out a gentle sigh of relief when he sees that his nose is no longer soaking everything within a ten-mile radius in blood. “Are you okay? I can go get you some ice, if you want.”</p><p>It’s early spring. Mikey got called up for the game in Chicago, and Dylan gave him a call as soon as he heard. They met up for dinner the night before, an Italian place that Dylan promises Mikey their childhood favorite doesn’t hold a candle to. Mikey isn’t convinced, even after the meal, but he seems to enjoy it nonetheless. In any case, Mikey’s opinion on the penne ala vodka doesn’t matter. </p><p>What matters is the way Mikey lights up when Dylan tells him about his season so far, and the way he focuses when he’s catching Dylan up on how his family’s been. What matters is the way the warm restaurant lights shine on Mikey’s face, perfectly accentuating his stupid bushy eyebrows, and the way his hair has gotten so long that it falls into his eyes when he laughs. What matters is the way that Dylan’s stomach does flips when they’re a few drinks in at the bar a few blocks away from his apartment, and how Mikey’s face turns just a little red, right around his cheeks, when he’s had a few glasses of wine. </p><p>Dylan’s not even that drunk, but he can’t help himself when Mikey smiles that goofy smile that makes him think about when they were in high school and they smoked weed for the first time under the bleachers together. They’re only at the bar for a few hours before Mikey kisses him once, twice, and they’re scrambling to get back to Dylan’s before they fuck in the Uber. </p><p>“I’m fine,” Mikey promises, snapping Dylan back to reality. He gently massages his face, wincing a bit at the pain. “I will take you up on that ice, though. And maybe some Advil, if you’ve got it.”</p><p>Dylan nods and goes to collect what he needs, giving Mikey a look when he decides to follow him. </p><p>“Are you sure you can walk?” he asks, concerned.</p><p>“Dude, you gave me a nosebleed, not a concussion.”</p><p>Dylan frowns, but he knows Mikey’s right. If he wasn’t okay, he’d make sure Dylan knew. He turns back around and leads the blond into the kitchen, immediately grabbing an ice pack from the freezer and handing it over. Then he grabs a bottle of water and some painkillers, handing them over as well. </p><p>“Thanks,” Mikey hums, sitting down. </p><p>Dylan smiles a quiet ‘you’re welcome’ and sits opposite him, trying not to stare too long at Mikey’s bedhead. He looks so fucking cute, it’s actually annoying. Even with his face in a bag of frozen chemicals. </p><p>“So.. how’d you sleep?” Dylan asks eventually, trying to fill the silence. </p><p>Mikey looks up. “You mean besides the fact that my alarm was a smack in the face?”</p><p>“Yeah, aside from that,” Dylan laughs, rolling his eyes. </p><p>“Just wanted to clarify,” Mikey teases, a little smirk playing at his lips. “Aside from that, I slept great. Your bed’s really comfortable.” It’s a strange compliment, but whatever. “How about you?”</p><p>Dylan smiles. He’s glad Mikey at least enjoyed the actual sleeping part of sleeping with him. “I slept well. Really well, actually,” he says. He decides against saying ‘I slept better than I have in months’, because that would be weird, and he doesn’t need to make this more uncomfortable than it already is. “Are you hungry? I can make us some breakfast,” he offers, pushing away from the counter and heading to the fridge. </p><p>“Sure. You got stuff to make pancakes?” Mikey asks, turning to face Dylan at the fridge. </p><p>Dylan nods, gathering ingredients and tools from around the kitchen. “I bought some berries the other day,” he hums, setting them out and getting to work. “D’you have a preference?”</p><p>Mikey examines the berries and thinks for a moment before looking up. “Extra strawberries,” he grins, like he’s at a fancy diner much nicer than Dylan’s kitchen.</p><p>Dylan laughs softly. Mikey’s a little shit, but it’s hard to say no to him.</p><p>“You got it.”<br/>
He makes quick work of producing a few pancakes for each of them, making sure to pile up the strawberries on Mikey’s and adding a generous helping of whipped cream for good measure. He presents Mikey’s plate with an overly dramatic bow, then reclaims his spot across from him. He tries not to think about the way Mikey’s eyes light up with the same glee he had when he was twelve and they snuck out to the pool in the middle of the night as he looks at the mountain of sugar on his plate. Dylan chuckles as Mikey digs in, holding nothing back. </p><p>He starts eating his own food after a moment, and a long silence falls on them. It’s nice, though. Comfortable. He likes just being around Mikey, enjoys his company. </p><p>Mikey himself is comforting. He reminds Dylan of home, of a time before anything really mattered. It’s like when he’s around, Dylan doesn’t have to worry about anything. Mikey’s safe. He’s warm. And he’s fucking beautiful. Dylan both loves and hates him for that. </p><p>“I’m happy you’re here,” Dylan murmurs warmly, shoveling one last forkful of pancake into his mouth. </p><p>Mikey, still chewing, swallows after a long moment and smiles wide. “I’m happy to be here.”</p><p>Dylan stands and collects their plates to put them in the dishwasher once Mikey’s finished eating. And he doesn’t think about Mikey’s smile or the way his hair frames his face or the way the sun hits everything perfectly, making every single feature that much more beautiful.</p><p>Even the bruise forming on the bridge of his nose.</p>
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